


A Watch in the Night

by bourbonandbitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 00:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonandbitter/pseuds/bourbonandbitter
Summary: Based on a Tadfield Advertiser prompt: Crowley, overwhelmed by his seemingly unrequited love, fucks Aziraphale in his sleep ... I'd love him riddled with guilt but so in love with Aziraphale's body. Bonus points if Crowley is trying to be gentle but is struggling not to pound away in him.Crowley loves Aziraphale.  He'd never hurt his angel.





	A Watch in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic consists of Crowley's POV before, while, and after he rapes Aziraphale. It includes minimization and rationalization.

It's not like he's hurting him. Crowley would never hurt his angel.

***

It takes a bit of doing to convince Aziraphale to try sleep. He has to paint it as nice - lovely, even - without showing his hand by saying the words outright. Even Aziraphale would pick up on a demon calling his favourite pastime _nice_. He's already inclined to be suspicious of Crowley, of his wiles, his schemes.

He works the angel over a period of weeks as they travel the desert, riding from oasis to oasis.

"Just woke up from a nap," he says when he encounters Aziraphale uncovering a well for some scrawny girl shepherds. "Feels fantastic - ready to tempt with new vigour. Try and keep up this time, will you?"

And Aziraphale scoffs and calls him Crawley and gives the party line: no rest for the righteous; virtue is ever-vigilant ("You're not a Virtue," Crowley objects; "let those buggers have their vigilance. Principalities can be ever-relaxed." Given Aziraphale's existential anxiety, it’s the wrong thing to say, and it sets him back days). 

"Can't wait to get some sleep after this," he murmurs later, when they've thwarted each other into inactivity and are enjoying a skin of wine. "Build a warm little nest in the blankets. Close my eyes and let this astounding mammal brain process my recent experiences. Sensations like… oh, real sensational ones; you've got to try it."

And at last Aziraphale nods sleepily and agrees that yes, it does seem a waste not to explore the whole human experience, and it would after all help him perfect the prophetic dreams he gets assigned from time to time, and perhaps he'll try it sooner rather than later, does Crowley ("Crawley," at least until the name change requisition goes through) mind overly?

So Crowley smiles fondly and helps him to his tent, instructing him on disrobing and cozying up in the blankets and animal skins.

"And you'll stay with me?" Aziraphale asks, utterly disarmed.

"I'll be right here, angel," he promises. He'll always be there for his angel. It's been this way for a few thousand years now, his fear drained abruptly on the garden wall, his existence-preserving caution slowly ebbing, his fondness escaping its tight little prison, his self-interest beginning to bow to the whims of another. Crowley loves his adversary’s beauty, his intellect, the way he turns the whole world golden with his goodness. Aziraphale lives in a world of banquets, experiences to be plucked from the trees, and all his delicacies have turned him sweet and brimming with juice.

He means to just watch, to calm the raging beast in his chest, the hunger in his thighs. He means to enjoy the vulnerable rise and fall of the angel's chest, his parted lips like the rosewood frame of a harp, his eyelids fluttering as he enters his dreams.

He means to just cover Aziraphale up when he turns in his sleep and the blankets fall from his naked back, his alabaster buttocks and plush thighs. He means, at most, to hold him, the way he'd never be allowed if his angel were awake.

And now even if it was a series of mistakes, a series of wiles that should have been thwarted, even if the angel wouldn't stay if he were awake, isn't it worth it to have Aziraphale in his arms at last, tonight in the desert, after centuries of waiting? 

_Don't wake up_, he thinks desperately, and perhaps he’s thought it a little too hard, with a little too much meaning behind it, and his hand stroking Aziraphale's temple, because it’s become an occult influence on reality, on the real angel in his arms, who sighs and sinks deeper into sleep and deeper into Crowley's arms. He fits against Crowley’s chest like a man in the saddle, like an egg in its nest. He draws his arms to fit more snugly around the broad chest, so that his wrists are tickled by the wiry white-blond hairs, and he doesn’t dare to breathe against the gentle curve of the angel’s ear.

He only holds him at first, the angel lying still and dreaming, warm and quiet and so, so solid against Crowley's trembling body. He holds him, and breathes in his scent, flower blossoms and crisp woodfire under the musk and dust of their bower, and under that, the sweat of labour, the human body. Crowley slides out his serpent tongue for a closer taste. His hardened effort feels right, so safe and ready, against the angel's thigh.

This angel, this adversary, made to smite him, his inevitable destruction. This force of goodness so sweet that he draws Crowley in like a bee to fresh blossoms, flying on instinct, spreading the flower’s pollen and doing its will even as he works endlessly for his claustrophobic hive. The angel is using him, knowingly or not, and will continue using him as long as Crowley has these wants. It’s better for everyone - better by far for Crowley - if he gets it out of his system. And, well, it’s not like the opportunity will come again any time soon.

He's already fallen. Surely there's nothing worse he can do. He slides his prick against the soft body, into the cleft above the strong thighs, stifling a moan. It's like he belongs here.

And not to eat the fruit - surely that's an insult to the gardener. He's always thought so.

He doesn't need to snap his fingers, doesn't really need to gesture at all. Reality bends to his will, and his will abuts only against another being of supernatural power. Here on Earth, that almost always means the angel. Asleep, though, the reliable opposing force has a fascinating vulnerability. Crowley runs one hand down the angel's hip, pulls gently at the plush globe. The cleft parts for him, slick and ready and lifted on cushions and rolled-up blankets. He doesn't even have to think; he only has to want, and he's been drowning in want for aeons. He slides inside his angel.

He grits his teeth to keep from swearing, and the angel makes a little moan, like he feels it too, a happy input into his dream. He moves slowly from his hips, a micro-thrust, careful not to wake the angel. It's like plunging into a warm pool, hazy with jasmine; Crowley shudders and constricts the angel's chest with one arm, biting back a swear. He buries his face in the soft white-gold curls. There's a gasp, no more than a little puff of air. Crowley kisses the sweat-slick neck: _go to sleep, angel. It's only me, only your Crowley, watching over you_. The angel relaxes around him, dissolving into his will, sighing into a deeper sleep. 

He tries rocking a little, back and forth, sliding gently in and out. How he'd love to pump deeply, make the angel cry out, leave wet kisses down his spine - how unjust that he's confined to writhing in the quiet of his tent, whispering reassurance, breathing peaceful dreams across the angel's welcoming mind.

He presses his hips against the angel, brushing a nipple with his thumb, stifling a moan into a carved ivory shoulder. He pushes deeper by the width of a grain, barely pulls out, grinds against the soft flesh, gripping a fistful of blanket instead of the round hip that rises up before him like a mountain from the flood waters. If he holds the hip he’ll squeeze and bruise and bite; if he pulls out too far he’ll slam back in and pump away, and then the angel will wake up and all this sweetness will end. And he wants to bruise the perfect skin, wants to bite and claw, but at the same time he can’t stand the thought of painting, of marring, an image so perfect for worship.

So he gently sinks in, inhales the heady scent of flowers and fire and flesh, sinks his fingers into a cushion, and falls into a twisting darkness. The angel opens up by increments, sleeps more deeply with every breath they sigh together, quivers around Crowley like a plucked bowstring. He presses a final kiss, gentle and promising, against the angel’s neck, and comes with a hot exhale, quiet and blindly tearful.

***

“Where are you off to next, then?” He’s snapped his fingers and returned the tent to raw firmament, but he fiddles with some straps on the angel’s saddle, unwilling to have nothing to occupy his hands and mind. If only he had a veil, he could avoid looking the angel in the face.

“Oh, Ashdod, I think,” says Aziraphale, looking out over the desert. “I’ve heard rumours of possible demonic activity. And a book I’ve been searching for. Perhaps I'll sail to Libya afterwards.” 

“I heard that rumour too. Been told to stay away,” he lies. “Official business.”

Aziraphale’s ears prick up visibly. “I see. Well. Of course you must…” He turns to glance at Crowley, then back to the horizon, as if scalded. “Thank you for helping me sleep. It was refreshing.”

“Did you like it?” Crowley mumbles. If he had a veil, he could hide the look of shame on his face.

“I dreamed, you know. Dreamed I was over the face of the waters. You know, back before everything. But I wasn’t hovering or, or brooding. I was floating, as if on little living waves.”

Crowley swallows.

“Do you think that’s what it was like?” Aziraphale asks. “In the waters of creation?”

“How would I know?” he snaps. “Bit after my time, wasn’t it? My side wasn’t much involved with creation. Left that party in the planning stages.”

Aziraphale flinches. “Terribly sorry, my dear. I suppose I forgot.”

He laughs, a hollow sound torn from his throat. If he had a veil, he wouldn’t have to see the golden glow ebb against his harsh words. He wouldn’t have to know that his gambit hadn’t worked, that if anything, he’s even worse off than before, because now he knows both guilt and longing. It’s almost as though his demonic traits are being peeled off one layer at a time. No wonder Aziraphale _forgot_.

“So long, angel,” he says. “Good luck in Ashdod.”

Aziraphale rides a camel, but Crowley flies on the air: the night breeze, the shimmering noon heat, the foul wind of desolating plague. It has its advantages. He slips away now on the air currents, but stops just far enough away to watch unseen as Aziraphale mounts the sullen-eyed beast and turns north.

He lied, after all. There’s nothing preventing him from following Aziraphale to Ashdod, watching over him, making sure he doesn’t remember what Crowley did last night, seeing if he tries sleep again. And maybe he can make it up to him, arrange another meeting. Maybe Crowley can have another chance.


End file.
